Hide & Seek
by Moore12
Summary: "But you have to be very quiet," Clint whispers, trying to hide his fear. He curses himself silently when his voice cracks. "Okay? You can't make a sound. If you do, you'll lose the game." Clint fights to protect his children from an intruder bent on punishing the archer for his sins. Set after Age of Ultron. Reviews always appreciated.
1. Part I

**Hide & Seek **

_Part I  
_

"But you have to be very quiet," Clint whispers, trying to hide his fear. He curses himself silently when his voice cracks. "Okay? You can't make a sound. If you do, you'll lose the game."

Cooper and Lila look up at him with big, scared eyes, and Clint can't help but wrap them in a tight hug. But he does manage to blink the mist from his eyes. "You have to promise me you won't make a sound. No matter what happens. No matter what you hear. Okay? I know you're the best at hide and seek. And this is the best hiding spot in the whole house. You'll win so long as you stay quiet, okay?"

There's a crash downstairs, and Clint quickly breaks off the hug. Cooper juts out his chin and nods, almost solemnly. He's probably old enough to know this isn't a game. As for Lila, she just stares at Clint, the tears building in her clear blue eyes.

"Daddy loves you," Clint breathes as he slides the panel into place and slips out of the closet, making sure to shut the door softly behind him. Then, he grabs his bow and quiver from out behind the dresser, where he always hides them when he's home to make sure the kids won't get a hold of them. There's another crash downstairs, this one louder than the first, and Clint grits his teeth. He doesn't know who his attacker is, but whoever it is—regardless of how strong or fast they are, even if they're a damn god—they've made a fatal mistake. Clint will make sure of that.

If he can help it, Clint doesn't want to engage the intruder in hand-to-hand combat. No, he wants to pick them off from a distance, end this with one arrow so he doesn't have to extend his kids' game of hide and seek longer than absolutely necessary. Silently, he makes his way to the top of the stairs, where he crouches and draws his bow. He stays as still as a statue, not willing to allow himself to blink even once, waiting for his target to appear as the footsteps grow louder.

At first, he doesn't know what hit him. He loosened his arrow the moment the shadowy figure mounted the first step, and now he's flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, a knife embedded in his left shoulder. He groans as he hauls himself to his feet and unleashes an arrow, scrambling behind the wall to avoid the second knife. He needs to draw the intruder outside. He needs to get him as far away from the kids as possible. This may be a battle he can't win.

For a moment, everything is silent. Clint wonders vaguely if his hearing aids have cut out on him, but then, for the first time, the intruder speaks. And it chills Clint to the bone. "You have as much blood on your hands as every Avenger, and every threat they claimed to have vanquished, Clint Barton. What right do you have to this life?"

Clint has asked himself that very question too many times to count. But right now isn't the time to ask it again. Shifting position, he catches his assailant's reflection in the window facing the staircase and takes a sharp breath. But then he steels himself and draws another arrow. This one, an explosive. Whatever damage it does, he'll repair it before Laura gets home from visiting her parents in South Dakota. He promises himself that as he lets it fly and charges down the hallway, leaving flecks of blood on the white carpet as he goes.

There's a boom, followed almost immediately by a roar of pain, or rage, Clint isn't entirely sure. All he knows it doesn't sound human. The walls are still shaking when he peeks out from where he's hidden, tucked in the doorway of Nathaniel's nursery. And, through the smoke, he sees the intruder striding towards him. Clint sucks in a ragged breath and, deciding he's running out of options, clambers to his feet and makes for the window.

He doesn't get there. His attacker catches him by the hood of his sweatshirt and, with frightening ease, flings him halfway across the room, sending him crashing into Nathaniel's crib. Clint tastes blood in his mouth and struggles to free himself from what amounts to a cage as his intruder stalks towards him.

"I'm disappointed, Barton," the intruder chuckles dryly, eying him with disgust. "I would have thought a hawk would defend its nest, especially when its young call it home. But, then again, to you this is only child's play. A harmless game of hide and seek, if I heard correctly."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Clint spits defiantly. He locks eyes with his assailant and snarls, all the while reaching for his quiver as discreetly as he can, "And if you've got a problem with me, take it up with me. Leave my family out of it."

The intruder just laughs. That's it, just come a little closer, Clint thinks as his attacker draws within inches of him. "Oh, Barton," the intruder sneers, "don't be so hopelessly naïve. What better way do I have to punish you for your sins than…"

Clint doesn't wait another second; he drives the arrow deep into his assailant's foot, not stopping until he feels it lodge in the floor below. Then, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the creeping white fog at the edges of his vision, he springs up and delivers an uppercut to the intruder's jaw. His attacker tries to stagger away but doesn't get far thanks to Clint's arrow.

Now, it's Clint's turn to chuckle as he snatches his bow off the floor and aims it at the intruder's face. "Talk," he demands, trying his best to mask the slur he hears in his voice. "Why are you doing this? Talk or I send this arrow right through your eye socket."

His attacker doesn't look at all disturbed. "You won't do that, Barton," the intruder says in an unnaturally calm voice, grabbing the shaft of the arrow that's the only thing preventing escape, or another attack.

"If I'm what you say I am, I will," Clint snaps in return, his finger itching to unleash the arrow and end this once and for all. But his heart tells him to wait. "You want to play a game? How 'bout Russian roulette? You're right, hide and seek is for children."

To Clint's surprise, his assailant laughs. And laughs. And laughs. Just as he's about to let the arrow fly, the intruder asks innocently, but through a sneer, "Tell me, Barton. When you told your children this was just a game of hide and seek were you intending to set the house on fire?"

A blind panic immediately starts to overtake Clint. His hands start trembling, causing the arrow to shiver in the bowstring. He didn't notice it before—probably because the explosion messed with his hearing aids—but the fire alarm is going off downstairs. He can't help but curse, and the intruder laughs again. "What are you going to do, Barton? Looks like you inadvertently raised the stakes in your little game."

And now Clint is in his attacker's face. He doesn't know what's gotten into him. But he knows he's running out of time. "Talk," he hisses, removing the arrow from the bowstring to jam it against the intruder's throat. "Talk or I'll shove this arrow through your fucking windpipe."

"There's that famous Barton spirit," his assailant only says through a slowly twisting smile. "But it won't be enough to vanquish me."

Clint shouldn't have let his panic cause his guard to fall, and he pays the price. The intruder kicks his feet out from under him, sending him crashing unceremoniously to the ground. Clint's barely fast enough to avoid being stabbed in the chest with his own arrow, which, apparently, his assailant has been freed from. Somehow, he manages to fire off two arrows in the time it takes him to roll out of the way and scramble back to his feet. He never misses, and doesn't this time, but it doesn't matter. They don't penetrate his attacker's armor. Cursing out loud, Clint makes a mental note to aim for the head, throat, feet and ankles—of course, he has to take low probability shots during the most important fight of his life.

"It's a pity, isn't it?" the intruder asks smugly, eyeing Clint up, clearly aware that he's starting to fade, and fast. Clint tries to blink the white fog from his eyes but only manages to chase it back to the corners. He swallows the blood in his mouth to not give his attacker the satisfaction of seeing it. "They should have known that you were out of your league, that you were just playing hero with your little bow and arrow, like a child. In case you haven't realized yet, this isn't the circus, and 'Hawkeye' isn't a hero."

His assailant is right. Clint knows that deep down inside; he just never wanted to admit it or even confront it. He knew after he was turned into a blue-eyed puppet by Loki; he knew after he was the only one injured in the Hydra outpost raid; he knew after that crazy Sokovian speedster had to save his ass during the battle against Ultron. But, through it all, he never quit. He never gave up. And he doesn't plan to start now.

As the white fog begins to choke out more of his vision, Clint bites his lip, tugs the knife from his shoulder and hurls it at the intruder in one fluid, well-practiced motion. He doesn't miss, never has, never will, and his attacker howls in pain and hits the floor with a thud. As Clint sprints for the door, he chirps over his shoulder, "Heh, guess I picked up a few t-tricks at t-the circus after all."

The fire has spread. It's reached the top of the stairs, and acrid black smoke fills the air, further clouding his vision. When Clint coughs, blood splatters onto his already stained flannel shirt. He ignores it and runs into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind him to keep the smoke out. He needs to get the kids out. He needs to get the kids as far away from the intruder as possible, and he estimates he has no more than two and a half minutes to work with.

When Clint removes the panel, it takes every ounce of will left in him to not embrace Cooper and Lila, especially when he sees the tears streaking Lila's face, the silent terror in Cooper's eyes. Instead, he just says, his voice oddly halting, "It's o-okay…Daddy's here now. And we're gonna play a new game, okay? B-but first…first I gotta get you outta here."

He can't carry Cooper, Lila and his bow so the bow is tossed aside. He hates using the pistol, but it'll have to do, and he grabs it from the nightstand's top drawer and tucks it into his belt. "Dad," Cooper begins when Clint turns to face his kids, but Clint puts a finger to his lips, flashing what hopefully passes for a smile, and Cooper falls silent.

"Listen," Clint whispers, crouching down so he can look his kids in the eyes even though he worries he won't be able to get up again, "you've won hide and seek. Now, it's t-time for t-tag. Okay? There's only one…rule. The moment we hit t-the ground…I'm it. And you have to g-get as far away from me…as you can, okay?" As he takes them both into his arms, he adds, his voice less than a breath, loud enough only for Cooper to hear, "G-go t-to t-the orchard. Be brave."

Time's up. Cradling his kids as tightly as he can, he hurtles towards the bay window he installed himself back when he and Laura bought the house as newlyweds and crashes through it. In the seconds it takes to hit the ground, he wishes he was able to fly. He wishes he was indestructible. He wishes he was telekinetic so he could summon something to cushion the fall. But he's not any of those things, and he hits the ground hard, back first to soften the blow for his kids.

And everything goes black. Clint lets out a gurgling sigh, and he can feel the blood running from his mouth down his chin. He tries to blink away the darkness, just like he did the white fog, but it doesn't dispel. He knows what's happening, and he slowly forgets where he is because he's been in this spot one too many times before, making them all blur together. Then, a small hand slips into his, a familiar voice shouts "dad," and his eyes snap open.

"Cooper, run," Clint gasps, chocking back blood as he does. "G-game's not over yet."

"Dad…" Cooper squeezes his hand, almost defiantly, staring down at him with eyes as large as saucers. "Daddy, get up. Please."

Clint doesn't know how he does it, but he pushes himself to his knees. He smiles at his son. He grabs his son's hand and rests it gently on his uninjured shoulder. "Cooper," he says weakly, his voice barely a whimper, praying he'll understand, "you…t-tagged me. I'm it. Run!"

Clint can see the tears in Cooper's eyes, but he doesn't cry. Instead, he nods, gets up and grabs Lila by the hand. "Come on, Lila, we gotta go," he says, his voice so strong and sure, Clint feels a rush of pride. "Dad's it!"

Only when Cooper and Lila are mere specks in the distance does Clint let himself crash to the ground. To make absolutely sure the intruder wouldn't find his kids, he had originally planned to make his way in the opposite direction, toward the cornfields, but now he's too exhausted, too weak, to even contemplate getting up. The white fog is gone now, replaced by an inky blackness that steadily encroaches on his best asset, the one thing that's kept him alive all these years. He's just about to let the darkness overtake him, just about to accept his fight is over and lost, when he hears a window shatter, hears an enraged roar that rivals even the Hulk's. Without thinking, he pulls the pistol from his belt, takes aim at the rapidly approaching figure and pulls the trigger.

He misses.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! This piece will likely have one or two more parts. I really enjoy writing about Clint; he's definitely my favorite Avenger, and I love how he's a father and can be seen as representing the everyman. In case you were curious, this is set after Age of Ultron, and it was inspired by various rumors regarding Hawkeye's involvement in Captain America Civil War. I intentionally left who is attacker is a secret. Who do you think it is? ~Moore12  
_


	2. Part II

**Hide & Seek**

 _Part II_

Before the accident, before the foster homes, before the circus, Clint and Barney used to play hide and seek almost every night. The game would always start right when the old, rusted pickup truck screeched into the driveway and their old man got out, unleashing a steady stream of expletives that rivaled even the relentless Iowa wind. Barney would turn to Clint, squeeze his hand and say, "Alright, Clint, I'm going to shut my eyes and count to 10. One…two…"

Clint was too young to know any better. He'd scamper off and would, more often than not, end up perched somewhere high—on top of the cabinets in the kitchen, in the tree next to the back porch, on the highest shelf in the mud room's coat closet. He'd hide for what felt like forever but wouldn't budge or make a sound, even when the yelling escalated, even when a bottle or plate shattered, even when the door slammed and his mom started sobbing. The day after the accident, the representative from the child services department found him half frozen in the tree. He stayed out there all night because Barney never came to find him.

Clint doesn't know why he remembers that now. And the memory immediately fades when he starts coughing again, the blood rising in the back of his throat. When he's done, he groans and again tries to reach for his phone which, miraculously, is still tucked in the back pocket of his worn jeans. It's probably broken, but it's his only hope now and, well, he did fork out a fair amount of his hard-earned cash for a case claiming to be virtually indestructible. If it is, I'm demanding a refund, he thinks, but he doesn't find the line as funny as he normally would.

Finally, he manages to yank the phone free, and he mutters a curse when he accidentally cuts his pointer on its shattered screen. Holding it close to his face because his vision isn't exactly what it used to be, he presses send, praying it will just dial the last number he called. And, remarkably, it does, but it just rings and rings and rings and then goes to voicemail: "Hi, you've reached Laura Barton. I'm not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Clint's stomach lurches. His mind goes directly to the darkest place—his attacker has Laura, has Nathaniel, and there's nothing he can do, no way he can protect them—but he shakes that idea away. They're safe, he tells himself; Laura told you they were going to that college football game tonight, remember? Because he knows the voice message is already recording, Clint takes a deep breath and says, hoping he at least sounds somewhat like himself, "Laura, when you get t-this, please d-don't panic. Everything's gonna be…alright. I promise. The kids are safe. And I-I'm gonna make sure you all stay…safe. I j-just wanted to call to t-tell you I love you a-…"

Clint manages to press end fast enough so Laura won't have to hear his violent coughing. The blackness at the edges of his eyes lurches forward, but he blinks furiously, beating it back the only way he knows how because, damn it, he's not ready yet. When his coughing fit finally dies down, after a few excruciatingly long minutes, Clint unsteadily fumbles for his phone, which had managed to slip out of his hand during that little ordeal. He has one more call to make.

It's funny, really. He can't call the people he trusted most in this word beyond his family, the only people he even considered family before he met Laura at that tiny South Dakota hospital all those years ago. He can't call the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D.; he was the one who walked away from the Avengers, and with red still left in his ledger too as Fury just had to remind him, so he doubts any of them would race to his rescue. Besides, they had kept so many secrets from him—the real intent of the Budapest mission, for one—so he could never trust them with his family anyway. As for the Avengers, it's not like he can call them up and ask them to assemble over little old him. He can't help but snort at the thought as he fiddles with his busted phone until he manages to access his call log. Fortunately, the number he wants is near the top, and he presses send, hoping he'll actually pick up because if he doesn't, he has no idea what else he can do.

Clint heaves a sigh of relief when, after only ringing twice, the phone crackles and Wilson asks, a hint of amusement in his voice, "Barton, I thought we told you to enjoy your retirement. I hope you're not calling to get in on the action."

"Heh, had 'nough action t-tonight t-to last…" A rough cough prevents Clint from finishing his quip, and he realizes Wilson has gone very quiet on the other end of the line. Maybe I lost him, he thinks blearily as he reaches up and wipes the blood from his mouth. I mean, cell reception is always pretty spotty out here and…

"Barton, what's wrong?" Wilson's voice tears Clint from his musings, and he can tell this isn't the first time he's asked this question. "Barton?"

"Yeah, yeah…still here," Clint wheezes, trying not to start coughing again even though his lungs are burning. He pauses to collect himself and then continues, his voice so slurred, he sounds like he just downed six too many beers, "Can't g-get rid of…me t-t-that easy. 'S Cap' 'round?"

To his credit, Wilson doesn't panic. He only says, his voice shaking ever so slightly, "yeah, he is, hang on a second," and then there's the pounding of footsteps on the other end of the line. Clint squints against the encroaching darkness, and he can't help but wonder why it's so damn cold when September is only in its first week and it's not even all that windy. And, right when he's about to ask Wilson if he dropped dead or something—now that would be ironic, Clint thinks wryly—there's a loud rustling sound and Steve asks, not even trying to hide his concern, "Clint, what's going on?"

"I-I…c-could use some b-backup," Clint wheezes, cursing himself because his voice is finally failing. Since he's running out of time, he forces himself to continue, chocking back the latest cough even though doing so coats the back of his throat with fresh blood, "At t-the farm…g-got attacked. D-didn't k-know who…else t-t-to call 'n 'm…not in g-good shape. K-kids 're 'kay, and Laura's outta t-tow-…"

Clint's voice fades, and only silence greets him. As the phone slips from his trembling hand, he wants to scream—this isn't a prank! I wouldn't fuck around like this, about this!—but he can't; all he can do is let out a helpless, pathetic gurgle. That seems to have snapped Steve back to reality because he says, suddenly eerily calm, "Clint, listen to me. Hang on, okay? We'll be…"

He doesn't get to hear the rest; a heavy, black boot comes down on his phone, crunching it into the ground, killing Steve's voice instantly. Clint's too exhausted to be afraid. Blinking up at the intruder, he licks his lips and tries to mumble a quip, something about if hadn't just jumped out a window, he'd wipe away that smug smirk, but all he gets is another gurgle.

If he had been asked how he'd die back when Coulson took a flier on a circus act who couldn't miss, when Fury decided an arrow could speak louder than a bullet, when he himself decided to stop toeing the line between good and evil and fly straight, he would've said he'd go down in a blaze of glory. He'd die saving the world—a true hero. And, in a sense, he will. He didn't save the whole world, but he had saved his own, and that's enough for him.

His assailant turns from Clint to the burning house and back to Clint. Clint watches idly, only vaguely registering that the intruder is no longer smirking. Finally, his attacker heaves a rather deflated sigh and quietly reflects, "It didn't have to be this way, Barton."

Clint only nods, but then he lifts his chin from his chest in defiance. It's about all he can do now. "C-coulda …made a d-d-different call."

The intruder's expression turns deadly, and Clint's addled mind registers that he's made a mistake, but he doesn't care. It's the truth. He expects his assailant to put him out of his misery then and there, but nothing happens—not even when he lets his eyes slip shut, lets his chin fall back to his chest, lets his grip on the arrow embedded deep in his shoulder slacken. He surprises himself when he whimpers, his voice barely loud enough for even himself to hear, "'M sorry…"

He doesn't see the intruder's expression soften at his words. He doesn't hear the apology whispered in return. He doesn't feel the hand reach down and wipe the blood from his mouth, the tears from his cheeks. Only after Clint takes one last shallow breath does his assailant turn and retreat to the road and the waiting ride, leaving the job unfinished but never once looking back.

* * *

 _Hope you enjoyed Part II! This story will either have one or two more parts, depending on the demand. I'm curious to know who you think Clint's attacker is. I deliberately left it unclear, and I would love to hear who you think it is, and if your guess has changed from after reading Part II._

 _To answer a few reviewer questions at the same time, my Clint is a composite character. I drew from a variety of sources, the movies, the comics, even other FanFiction pieces I've read. In the comics, Clint is deaf, was a carnival act and was on the wrong side of the law to start out. In the movies, he had a family and is a former SHIELD agent. I've combined the two worlds because, at the end of the day, Clint doesn't get much attention in the movies and little is really known about him. Plus, I feel like he's a much more compelling character this way. Hope that clears up any confusion. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! ~Moore12_


	3. Part III

**Hide & Seek**

 _Part III_

"It's going to be okay," Cooper breathes, instinctively drawing his sister closer. "Daddy's going to get us soon. But we still have to stay quiet for now, okay?"

Lila sniffles, and Cooper can see the tears welling up in her eyes. To keep her from crying, he puts a finger to his lips and gives her a quick squeeze. "Daddy said it's going to be okay so it's going to be okay," he whispers. "Okay? He'll get us soon."

Cooper's not sure if he believes that anymore. He doesn't know how long it's been since they reached the orchard and hid underneath the old wheelbarrow Dad must have left out there by accident. It feels like it's been forever, and Cooper is starting to grow impatient. He wants to do something, anything really, and he hates having to sit here and do nothing. Earlier, he had almost ignored what Dad had told them when he heard a gunshot, followed closely by a bloodcurdling scream. But Lila had started sobbing almost immediately, and it had taken whispering her a story Mom had told them once to get her to calm down.

Now, everything is quiet; too quiet even, Cooper thinks, before shaking his head vigorously because, no, it can't be. It's been like that for awhile, ever since they heard the roar of an engine in the distance. Cooper wants to leave their hiding spot, but he doesn't want to disappoint Dad. He told us to stay as far away from him as possible, and he told me to be brave, Cooper reasons. But what if he's hurt and needs help, and we're just…

Cooper's glad that he stayed hidden when he hears the roar of engine nearby. He can just make out Lila's eyes widen at the sound, and he whispers "it'll be okay" for what feels like the billionth time. He doesn't want to believe that their attacker is back, but he knows better than to take any chances and check it out. Years ago, he overheard Dad and Mom arguing late at night. At one point, Mom told Dad, "You know the quote, 'the line between bravery and stupidity is so thin that you don't know you've crossed it until you're dead,' right? That's going to be you if you keep this up. So could you please stop being stupid and treating everything like it's a game?"

Cooper doesn't know why he took that quote to heart. Maybe it's because Dad clearly did. He may have been young, but he noticed that, after that, Dad spent less time in bed and more time tackling home improvement projects and playing with him whenever he was home. So Cooper isn't going to be stupid—he's going to stay here and keep his sister quiet until Dad comes to find them because that's what Dad wants and that's what the brave thing to do is.

He hears voices, but he can't make out what they're saying. They don't sound angry, though, just surprised, and maybe even a little scared. Cooper racks his brain, trying to determine why they also sound so familiar, but no good reason immediately comes to mind. So he continues to wait.

Only a handful of minutes pass, though they feel like hours to Cooper, before there's the sound of boots crunching on newly fallen leaves and one of the voices calls, "Cooper! Lila! It's okay! You can come out now! Cooper! Lila!"

Cooper freezes, and he's seized by this creeping sensation that he's never felt before. It's almost like he can't breathe, and he realizes with a start that his hands are shaking. No, he tells himself, trying unsuccessfully to calm down. Dad said I have to be brave…And he'll be here soon. He'll take care of this. He'll make sure we're safe.

"Cooper? Lila? Are you out here?" the voice continues, more insistent than before, and Cooper curls tighter around Lila even though he knows that doing so will do nothing to protect her if they're found. "It's Uncle Steve! Please come out! It's okay now!"

"Uncle Steve?" Lila breathes in response, and Cooper can hear the hope in her voice. She tugs on his hand, and he yanks it back in silent warning. They can't go out there. For all they know, this is a trap. Besides, what would the one and only Captain America be doing here? Most nights, Cooper begged Dad to tell him stories about his time with the Avengers or updates about what they were doing now. And, according to those stories, Captain America was off in the upstate New York woods, training the next generation of Avengers, when he and the team weren't called off to save the world, of course. So Captain America can't be here, not unless he's supposed to believe that he just sensed there was something wrong and flew into save the day or…

The voice provides the alternative: "Cooper! Lila! Your dad…your dad called." For a second, everything is silent again, and then the voice adds softly, almost pleadingly, "It's okay, I promise. Please come out if you can hear me…"

Cooper doesn't know what to do. When would dad have called? he wonders, almost aloud to Lila, but he catches himself because he can sense that the person claiming to be Uncle Steve is close. That doesn't make any sense because…

Cooper doesn't get to finish that thought because, all of a sudden, the wheel barrel they're hiding under is lifted up and dropped to the side. His scream dies in his throat when he sees the one and only Captain America standing before them. Yes, it's definitely him, though he's not in his usual gaudy—Cooper thought that was the word Dad used to describe it a few times—red, white and blue suit, instead wearing the black that Dad always favored on missions.

"Uncle Steve!" Lila exclaims, and suddenly Captain America is only Uncle Steve; he drops to his knees and wraps Lila in a hug when she runs to him, finally crying all the tears she held back while they were hiding. Cooper watches the scene in mutely, not even trying to make out what Uncle Steve is saying to Lila. His mind is reeling, but it keeps going back to the same thing over and over again.

"Where's Dad?" Cooper demands, and he can tell that he caught Uncle Steve off guard because he takes a second to turn to face him. When he does, he forces a smile, but there's a pained expression on his face, one that Cooper has seen on Mom's face every time Dad ended up in the hospital. Because it doesn't look like he's going to answer, Cooper repeats, jutting out his chin in a poor attempt at channeling some of Dad's menace, "Where's Dad?"

"Cooper…" Uncle Steve begins, but his voice, which was faltering from the start, trails off. He starts over quickly, his voice is only a tad more confident than before, "Sam is taking care of your dad right now. Don't worry; we'll do everything in our power to help him." He pauses again and then adds, "It's going to be okay, son."

Cooper isn't satisfied with that answer, just as he wasn't satisfied with Dad's explanation that they were just playing hide and seek when he crammed them into that tiny room. He doesn't say that, though; instead, he asks, "How'd you even know we were in trouble?"

As he lifts Lila into his arms, Uncle Steve replies, his voice a little too calm, "Your dad called and said he needed backup so Sam and I flew out and got here…as soon as we could."

Cooper doesn't like how Uncle Steve hesitated. It confirms what he already suspected: he's hiding something. Dad acts the same way when he's hiding something; he'll pause mid-sentence, and its end is far more positive than its beginning. Mom always calls him out, and he always just smiles weakly and says, "Later." Cooper had figured what that really meant as soon as he hit third grade: _When the kids aren't around_. Once, Cooper had tried to hide outside the door of Mom and Dad's room when Dad was talking about a mission—there was something about a mad scientist—but Dad had spied him through the crack in the door and sent him back to bed, but not before they snuck downstairs together for late-night cookies and milk.

He didn't even notice that Uncle Steve has taken him by the hand. As soon as he does, he tugs his hand away, and Uncle Steve lets him go. He smiles—and it's a decidedly sad smile, similar to the one Mom gets when Dad's been out of touch for longer than a week—and says, "Cooper, I know I'm not your dad, but you have to trust me. When I found out he had a family, I promised your dad I would always be there to support you if called upon. That's why I'm here. And, now, I have to get you and Lila back to base so I know you're safe."

"What about Dad?" Cooper asks; he can feel the tears threatening to build up in his eyes, but he doesn't let them. Dad never cried. "He…He got hurt. W-we jumped out a window. He needs you more than m-…"

Uncle Steve responds only by taking him by the hand again. This time, Cooper doesn't resist. He lets Uncle Steve lead him back towards the house, which isn't visible through the black smoke hanging in the air. Part of Cooper expects Dad to emerge from the smoke with a smile on his face and an amused glitter in his eyes. He figures that he'll quip something silly like _guess they weren't thinking an old man would put up that big of a fight_ or _welp, now we'll have plenty of projects to work on 'round the house_. Or, maybe, he won't say anything at all; he'll just scoop them into his arms, and everything will go back to the way it was before. But, the next thing Cooper knows, he's being led up the ramp of a small, black plane—a quinjet, the name finally comes to him—and being sat down in a seat just outside of the cockpit next to Lila. "Take care of her, alright?" Uncle Steve says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Sam and I will be right back."

But they're not right back. Cooper starts to fidget in his chair, his nerves finally starting to get the better of him. Part of him knows that he should stay where he is, and take care of his sister like Uncle Steve asked him to, but he gets up and makes his way to the nearest window. What he sees will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Uncle Steve and a man he doesn't recognize who must be Sam are carrying Dad between them. And something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. Dad's favorite gray and black flannel shirt—the one Mom teases him will "get up and walk away one day" because he wears it so much—is stained dark red. Cooper waits for Dad to move, mutter something to Uncle Steve, open his eyes, take a breath, but he doesn't. He's so still, hanging so limply between Uncle Steve and Sam, he reminds Cooper of one of Lila's discarded dolls.

Cooper can't look anymore. He returns to his seat and buries his head in his hands, not even looking over at Lila when she asks, "Cooper, what's wrong?" He can't face her. He can't be the one to tell her that Dad is…

Time speeds up after his realization. Cooper expected the opposite to happen, but it doesn't. The next thing he knows, they're in the air, and he only looks out the window because he wants to see the vast Iowa plains one last time. He already knows that he'll never be able to go back there again. When Uncle Steve, who had come out to sit with them after takeoff, returns to the cockpit, Cooper quietly gets up and makes his way over to the curtained-off area where Uncle Steve and Sam had taken Dad.

He does his best not to look at the body, covered by a simple white sheet. He doesn't want to remember Dad this way—no, he wants to remember Dad sharing skillets of chili cheese fries with him at Steak 'N Shake, Dad patiently teaching him how to shoot in the barn, Dad taking him trick or treating, dressed as Captain America because Cooper had begged him to. And that's when he notices an old photo of him, Lila and Mom, a folded piece of frayed, yellowing notebook paper, a shattered phone and a leather wallet with the Iowa Hawkeyes logo on it lying abandoned on the counter.

Cooper doesn't know why, but he grabs the piece of notebook paper. Then, he slips out from behind the curtain and returns to his seat. He sits there for a few minutes—waiting for his heart to stop hammering, his hands to stop shaking—before he opens the piece of paper. And he can't believe what he's seeing.

At the end of first grade, Ms. Benson assigned an in-class essay on heroes. Naturally, Cooper wrote about Dad, and he wrote about him as Hawkeye, not as the always-on-the-road farm equipment salesman that he pretended to be around town. Dad was away when it happened so Mom got called in for an "emergency" parent-teacher conference. Luckily for Cooper, she had managed to convince Ms. Benson that the story was a product of his "overactive imagination," but she had grounded him for a full week over it.

As soon as Dad got home, Mom made him sit Cooper down and explain why he couldn't tell anybody that he saved the world for a living. And he had; without ever raising his voice, without ever saying anything about compromising him or putting the family in danger, Dad told him that he couldn't tell anybody that he was a hero because "to me, running around telling people you're a hero kind of defeats the point, if that makes any sense. You're a hero because of your actions, not because people say you're a hero."

Cooper can feel the tears building up in his eyes again, and he smoothes out the paper gently, not wanting to tear it any worse than it already is. He can't believe it; he had no clue that, all these years, Dad had been carrying his essay. He wonders why until he reads it for the first time since he wrote it all those years ago.

 _MY HERO_

 _by Cooper Barton_

 _My Dad is my hero. Hes a avenger. He doesnt have super powers like the other avengers but hes a big part of the team. He has a bow and arrow and he looks out for the avengers from rooftops and stuff. the lady on the news says he cant miss and thats why hes 'hawkeye'. Dad says thats a exagaraton but Mom says he just says that because hes humble._

 _My Dad is also my hero because when hes home he takes me out for milk shakes and hambergers at stake and shake. For my birth day, we went to a hawkeyes game and he got me a hat. And he got me a bow and arrow too!_

 _I want to be like my Dad one day. Not only because hes a real hero but because hes the best Dad in the hole world._

Cooper doesn't realize that he's crying until Uncle Steve sits down next to him and throws an arm around his shaking shoulders. He can't bring himself to look up at Uncle Steve, not when he's crying like he's in first grade all over again, so he just stares at the ground. Uncle Steve doesn't say anything at first, but when he does, Cooper can hear the pain in his voice, "I know nothing I say will make this any easier. I know you already know this, but your dad, he loved you so much. And, if I know your dad, he'll always be watching over you."

How can he now? Cooper wants to shout, but he doesn't. Deep down inside, he knows that Uncle Steve is right. But that doesn't matter right now, not at all. He just wants his daddy, and he cries even though he knows he told him to be brave.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Hide & Seek may have one more part, depending on how this chapter is received. It was challenging writing as Cooper, but I think I pulled it off! I tried to make him like a mini-Clint while making it clear that he's his own person (see, for example, how fidgety he gets compared to Clint in the flashback sequence that stared Part II). Also, this chapter was meant to be a bit of a tear-jerker so forgive me if I made you sad. Anyway, I really appreciate hearing from readers so please review! __~Moore12_

 _P.S. Shameless plug: I've written two other stories on Clint_ _—"Distance" and "Unexpected Absolution"_ _— and would appreciate you checking them out. Thanks!_


	4. Author's Note

**Author's Note  
**

First of all, thank you so much for your reviews, favorites and follows. They mean the world to me, and they're why I considered extending this story.

However, when I wrote it, I intended _Part III_ to be the final chapter. So this story is officially over. I like how it ties together so neatly, and I don't want to ruin it by tacking on the _Part IV_ I wrote.

But, have no fear, a sequel is in the works! It doesn't have a title yet, but be on the look out for it. I would also like to direct you to _An Accidental Hero_ , which can be read as a prequel to _Hide & Seek_. I just updated it yesterday and would love to hear your thoughts. I also have another prequel story (tentatively titled _Come & See the Show_, a quasi-Hawkeye origin story) planned as well.

Anyway, hope I didn't disappoint. Drop a review to let me know what you thought of _Hide & Seek_, check out _An Accidental Hero_ (and my steadily growing collection of one-shots) and be on the lookout for my future pieces in this story arc. Until next time. ~Moore12


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